


Means of Acquittal

by Dichotomous_Dragon



Series: Prowess [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, BAMF!Dorian, Gen, Magical Duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Writ of Accusation shows up at Skyhold: Dorian stands challenged to a duel by a Venatori loyalist and has no choice but to fight him.  To prove he is innocent of treason against his homeland (he's trying to <em>save</em> Tevinter, after all), he has no choice but to play his role in a game that's been deliberately stacked against him.</p><p>Or, Dorian duels a fellow Tevinter in Skyhold's courtyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darknessyumi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Darknessyumi).



> Normally the 'Prowess' fills are shorter than this but Darknessyumi's idea kicked me in the face and so HERE have some procedural political ho-hum along with your magical duel. 
> 
> Also some hints of Adoribull, of course. :)

Evelyn entered the war room, normally pleasant features twisted into something much more grim. She shoved the heavy door open to find her Spymaster and closest friend speaking in hushed tones. Dorian and Leliana looked up as the Inquisitor entered, a large qunari a step behind her. The 'vint's eyes widened a hair, surprised to see the Bull. Not so surprised to see the murderous look on Trevelyan's face though.

"You heard about the letter," Leliana said. Not a question. The female mage nodded once, crisply, schooling her face a touch. The shift did roughly nothing to take the nervous anger out of every muscle in the rest of her, however.

"I heard some arsehole from Tevinter feels like dying at Dorian's hand," Evelyn growled, hands balled into fists. The Anchor sputtered green light for a moment or two and she took a deep breath. "I did not hear the specifics. Enlighten me?" Bull couldn't help it, he grinned a little; fortunately he was behind her and safe from her wrath. Juvenile, yes, but that fierce loyalty was one of the reasons he was as attached to the Boss as he was. She could be political when she had to be (was pretty good at it, too, when she felt it worth it) but within safe confines she did not pull punches.

"I received a Writ of Accusation, basically," Dorian explained, translating from Tevene. "You recall those three magisters we killed?" Evelyn nodded. They'd hunted down the three former associates of Dorian's rather quickly after he'd joined the Inquisition. "Another magister--Venatori, likely--heard tell and has challenged me to a duel. Long story very short, he wishes to fight me here at Skyhold as a way to get satisfaction for my being naughty and the Inquisition has to play host since I was...affiliated at the time."

"What are the grounds? I thought any formal writ had to come from the Magisterium itself?" Evelyn questioned and was rewarded by Dorian's smile, a flash of pearly white against his dark complexion. 

"You've been reading," the 'vint remarked. "Yes, a formal trial would have a writ issued by the Senate. We in the higher classes also have means of accusing one another that don't immediately go to the Senate. Writs are not to be taken lightly and as such are not issued lightly, largely because of the ripple effects they can cause depending on outcome. I will spare you the details there but all it takes is a decent imagination to figure out how to twist such things into social leverage."

"You still have not told me what they accused you of. Killing the magisters, I know, but that is hardly new. There has to be more to it." Dorian nodded. The smile was gone.

"The magister has accused me of treason against the Imperium." Trevelyan hissed. "Worse, the Inquisition is implicated vicariously. Were I to handle this badly, I could be making quite a lot of trouble for Josephine."

"So we can't ignore it or he'll take it to the Magisterium, and we'll look guilty because we didn't reply," Evelyn muttered. Bull could hear the gears grinding away in her head and, not for the first time, was glad he didn't often have to deal with 'Vints beyond his interactions with Dorian and Krem, and killing the ones that got in their way.

"Not replying also makes it look like the Inquisition is complicit in the murder of three innocent magisters on southern soil," he added. "Not good."

"Innocent?! They were Venatori!"

"A fringe cult which has not been publicly acknowledged by the Archon," Leliana offered. Bull was nodding.

"-and if the Inquisition looks to be protecting Dorian and refuses to acknowledge, the 'Vints get all the ammo they need to stir up the Magisterium into an official stance against the Inquisition."

"Can we--" Evelyn started.

"We cannot simply claim ignorance as a tactic, either. As an implicated accomplice, the Inquisition has to host the duel as per the request. Even publicly severing ties with Dorian would not be sufficient."

"That is _not_ what I was going to suggest." Trevelyan's voice, fierce earlier, positively _smoldered_ now. Dorian started to speak; the Inquisitor pointed at him once, fiercely, and said "Do. Not." The other mage's teeth clicked together audibly as he closed his mouth. "I recognize that Dorian is a big boy and all that but I will not entertain any plan that sounds even vaguely like 'turn Pavus over to the enemy,' am I clear on that?" Evelyn looked at her colleagues; no argument came. Leliana's face was impassive as always but there was a slight quirk to her mouth. The Iron Bull made no question of his approval, nodding back at her when Trevelyan turned to him. She looked at Dorian last, by which point her stormy blue eyes were outright daring him to contradict her and suggest he do something noble and, by her thinking, unforgivable--at least if it endangered him. "Excellent. We are strong enough as an entity that it doesn't need to come to that. There has to be something that we can do to spin this on all fronts and still make it work."

"I believe we can, Inquisitor," Sister Nightingale confirmed. Trevelyan's posture visibly relaxed, albeit slightly. 

"Good. Let's discuss plan of action and then I'll reply to Magister What's-His-Arse," the young woman grumbled. Bull's rumbling chuckle behind her affirmed Trevelyan's way of thinking.

 

Two hours later the four of them left the war room, having agreed on the plan. It was risky but they had limited options to work within to maintain face and not cause unnecessary friction with the Imperium. Evelyn sent her reply that evening, and received a reply the following day. 

In two weeks the magister--or his champion--would arrive at Skyhold, and Dorian would fight.


	2. Reminded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is amazing but he also knows what's at stake--that alone is a bit unnerving, talented or not. 
> 
> Sometimes, it takes a friend to remind you what you _should_ have known all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say less talking? Yeah, no. That's next chapter <3

Dorian had been absent his normal spot in the library in the week since Magister What's-His-Arse confirmed the challenge. It was late, three hours past evening meal at least, when the mage heard a soft knock on the door of his room. He looked up from the small desk where he was reading, a little surprised. A come-hither gesture pulled the door open to reveal The Iron Bull in his doorway, slipping inside quietly with a small tray in one hand. Dorian's head cocked sideways, an unspoken question.

"You forgot to eat again," Bull said, in lieu of 'hello' or 'good evening, Dorian.' The qunari handed the tray to the mage; the 'vint was pleasantly shocked to see a couple of the filled pastries that were one of Skyhold's more palatable foods, along with a couple pieces of fruit and a small loaf of bread that was still warm.

"Is dinner so droll in my absense that it tugs on your maternal instincts, Bull? I'm touched," Dorian tittered, looking up at his guest with a strange look on his face. 

"As you should be," Bull replied, inclining his head cordially. "Good to know they teach you 'Vint's some manners. Well, manners other than 'oh look company, best bleed a slave,' anyway." Pavus laughed, nibbling an apple and gesturing to light the other candles in the room. The glow was a warm red, welcoming.

"Quite. I am glad not to be an affront to your delicate sensibilities, messere." Bull let that one go, eyeing Dorian's workspace with a critical eye. The humor out of the way, the qunari got right down to it.

"You doing anything to prepare, 'Vint?"

"No," the mage replied. _Great, starting off grouchy,_ Bull thought. _Shoulda made him eat before I asked._ Dorian went on. "I thought it best to 'wing it,' as you southerners so charmingly put it, seeing as how my life may very well be forfeit if I fail."

"Without the Tevinter shine on there, 'Vint," Bull chastised, his way of calling for a momentary truce on rhetoric and verbal bullshit. "You studying up on technique or what?"

"Therein lies the inherent brilliance in my countrymen's assertions," the mage smiled faintly, closing the book before him and nodding to Bull to let him know this was the no-bullshit answer. "The writ wasn't issued by the Magisterium but by Magister Erimond, though that makes it no less binding. I have no doubt that Erimond will not be coming to Skyhold but that having been said, it could be literally _any_ other person--mage or otherwise--of Tevinter origin. I have no way of knowing who I'm up against, only what I'll likely face should I be defeated."

"So the options are what, exactly?"

"If I win, we're golden. If I lose, I will likely be dead but Josephine and Leliana should be able to do damage control for the Inquisition. By hosting, they upheld their end of the bargain and can publicly decry my actions to sever ties." The 'vint gave a pensive hum, not looking at the deepening scowl on Bull's face. "If I lose but am not slain, I will be dragged back to Tevinter as a prisoner of the magister who issued the writ to stand before the Senate and be formally accused of treason, best case scenario."

"That's the _best_ case if you lose?" Bull growled; Dorian nodded, leaning on one elbow as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm afraid so. Writs like this one exist to settle disputes between magisters without the entire Senate being involved. Often, duels don't end in death because there is much to be gained from the political machinations instead. The magister that loses can be brought before the Senate at any point and will often go to extreme lengths to prevent the social damage," he sighed, fluttering a hand. "Given my ties to the Inquisition I am far more valuable as a pawn, I'm sure. It's all very exhausting."

"I thought you liked being a pain in the ass to your fellow 'vints."

"You're not wrong. My pariah status is something I pride myself on bearing admirably. It's been awhile since I had anyone worth caring about to damage with it, however." _Never,_ Dorian's mind corrected him. _You have never had any person--or persons--you cared about protecting enough to worry. Not even yourself_. Now the tenuous alliances he'd built in the south stood to suffer from the Tevinter politicking he had inadvertently brought with him, clinging to him like a pestilence. "I do not doubt my ability to fight. I have duelled formally on a number of occasions and have lost precisely once. There are some variables for which I can't account, though--enough that I am worried." 

The Iron Bull flicked his head in a motion that said _Go on. Explain._

"As challenger, our magister has no requirement to name his champion before the day of the duel. As the accused, and to make sure the Inquisition retains plausible deniability, my champion can be no one _but_ me. I am far from a one-trick pony, of course, but my preferred schools of magic do not lend themselves well to combat in which there will be innocent bystanders in droves close by. Least of all when said bystanders are historically terrified of my ilk."

"Probably wouldn't be a great plan to summon up a horde of undead in the courtyard if you plan on sticking around." Dorian chuckled humorlessly.

"Not really, no. Same thing with many of the fire and lightning spells that are my trademarks. If I get sloppy, I hurt colleagues and damage my place here, likely beyond repair. If my opponent gets sloppy, it's the Inquisition's fault for providing too small a venue. It's...the whole thing is brilliant, really. The only way they could hinder me more would be to collar me before the match begins." The mage drew small designs on the table with one finger, shoulders drawn down and in. Admitting what he was up against out loud made the situation much clearer, though he'd known before that the odds were stacked against him. That didn't bother Dorian as much as the fact that his involvement in the Inquisition was proving more dangerous than he'd ever anticipated. Not to _him,_ that he expected, but to the eclectic relationships he'd found since fleeing his homeland. "It would be much worse for me to live if I lose," he continued honestly. Logical results that centered on intrigue and darker things spiralled through his mind, feeling _exactly_ like the parts of his homeland he hated. "The damage my survival could cause Evelyn and the Inquisition could be catastrophic, depending on how the victor chose to exploit me. I-"

"Katoh," Bull said suddenly. Dorian, startled, looked up to see the bigger man shaking his head. His massive arms were folded indolently across his chest, a physical refusal. "Enough. I'm not gonna sit and listen to you wallow, 'Vint, and I sure as hell am not going to let you talk yourself into rolling over because you think it benefits the 'greater good' or some highbrow bullshit like that."

"The Inquisitor cannot be made to choose between one rogue Altus mage and engaging in actions that could lead to the whole of Tevinter swearing itself formally against the Inquisition. You know as well as I that Evelyn had no idea what she was getting into when she allowed me to stay." The rumors, the accusations...some of the things he'd heard under people's breath made even his well-conditioned veneer crack, some days. Never in the open, mind, but it had happened.

"And _you_ know just as well that if she heard you talking like this she'd hit you in that pretty face of yours."

"Our dear Inquisitor is too soft-hearted for her own good when it comes to..." he trailed off, throat suddenly tight. He remembered watching Evelyn make decisions that led to the result for the 'greater good' that also lost some of their men. He'd asked her, once, if she was okay, and while she'd seemed sad at their loss she stood by the call. Many others would live because some had perished, she'd said, and sometimes that had to happen. Dorian hadn't asked her what she'd do if ever the Inquisition called on her to make the same call about him, or Bull, or any of the others that made up her Inner Circle. 

Bull hauled Dorian bodily out of his thoughts as his fist, bunched in the front of the mage's robes, hauled him bodily out of his chair. Dorian had no idea how the warrior had closed the distance so quickly and so quietly. He found himself pressed firmly to the wall.

"You listen to me, Dorian Pavus." Iron Bull's voice was both as sharp as an assassin's blade and just as deathly quiet, the contained fury of a hurricane belied by the stillness of its eye. The mage fell still, wide-eyed as the qunari loomed over him, one huge fist pressed just hard enough against his sternum that he could feel it. "You think you know every variable, that you can calculate every option and make the best choice, and most of the time you're right. This, though--" Bull growled, shaking his head for a moment. An instant later and his gaze was boring back into Dorian's, however, giving the smaller man no quarter to look anywhere else. "You can't always trust this-" a warm finger tapped against Dorian's temple, "over this" the tapping moved to his chest, right over where his heart was hammering against his ribs, "-especially not in this case. You know how good you are, Dorian, but you don't _believe_ in it." Bull sighed a little, a tiny burst of air from a huge form held tense as a drawn bow. "Look. You need help with techinique, I can't help you, 'cept that a lot of 'Vints I've fought take longer on the fourth spell than the first three. Beyond that--" big hands placed themselves on Dorian's shoulders, more gentle a gesture than the hand in his shirt had been, but no less earnest. "Stop and think what you did when you came here."

_Fled my responsibilities? Bolted from expectations I didn't--couldn't--meet? Ran instead of--_ The stricken look was startled right off Dorian's face as a finger tapped against his temple a second time.

"Hold it right there, Dorian." The Bull's voice was firm but not scolding. "I'm not Cole but I'd bet all the gold in my pocket you didn't think about the fact that you helped _save the world in the fucking **future**_ just then." The mage swallowed once, hard, and shook his head. "Yeah, thought not. Look. You keep worrying about the political bullshit and everything up here" _tap, tap, tap_ , "and you'll fuck this up. You want to do right by the Inquisition?" The nod was ever-so-slight. "Win. Do what you do best--make your countrymen look like shit by comparison. Shouldn't be hard if you believe half the stuff you tell us about yourself." There was no question in Bull's tone, no doubt at all. It slapped the breath from Dorian's lungs.

The Bull looked down at the 'vint for a few long seconds, appraising whatever it was he saw in Dorian's eyes. 

"Yeah?" _You get it?_

"Yes." Something palpable simmered in the air between them. Dorian cleared his throat, pulling half a smirk onto his lips. Forced but there.

"You have been shutting me up quite frequently lately." 

Bull laughed. "Somebody has to." The mage went still as the taller man leaned down and pressed a kiss to Dorian's forehead. When Bull started to pull back a quick hand caught one of his horns. Dorian rose onto the balls of his feet, placing an answering kiss lightly on the Bull's lips. The lopsided grin on his face was pronounced as Bull turned to go but he did not miss a beat of his snark. "Maybe someday soon I'll do it with less yapping. You 'Vints and your _talking,_ " he grumbled. 

"National passtime," Dorian said softly behind his back.

"Right up there with blood magic and being a pain in the ass," Bull agreed, pulling the door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap will be the fight but I'm still going round and round with it for the moment, kiddies <3
> 
> Let me know what you think if you like!! I do love it when you do. Thanks for reading ^_^


	3. Finally Triumphant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion, at long last.
> 
> ...also bonus points if you can tell from the ending what the next entry in this 'verse is meant to be :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You kids have **no idea** how many times I went over this trying to get it right. Unless you're Lil Abyss or CyberFairie, both of whom are lovely and endlessly patient)
> 
> Do please let me know what you think of it: good, bad, or other!

Evelyn descended the stair from the main hall looking like she'd just stepped out of a gala in Minrathous, a floor length black dress brushing the tops of black boots and set off nicely by a silvery over-robe in lace and set with shimmering glass beads along the hem and collar. Dorian quirked an eyebrow at her, at the brown hair falling straight and regal down her back (not half-up as she usually wore it) and at the dark, dramatic lines around her blue-grey eyes. The Inquisitor's lips, stained dark by lipstick, twitched as she held in a smirk and tilted her chin up at him instead. 

"What say you, Dorian of House Pavus?" Trevelyan asked in her best 'polished nobility' voice. It was jarring, so outside her norm that he couldn't help relaxing a bit in spite of himself. "I must entertain a challenger from the Imperium and the lady Ambassador suggests it is proper to emulate the styling of the offended party as a sign of mutual respect. Do I look the part?" If the bits about the challenger were bitter on her tongue she kept her face schooled; Dorian bowed--properly, too, a long, low sweep of his lithe form--smoothly sliding one of her hands into his own on his way back up.

"Dear Inquisitor, you would strike the Magisterium silent from shock with your grasp on proper style," he replied, brushing his lips against the back of one slim hand. Dropping his courtly tone he met her eye and added earnestly, "Your makeup looks stunning." That got an _actual_ smile out of her, the plastered-on, tight-lipped version giving way to a parting of painted lips and a flash of teeth.

"I did it myself," Evelyn preened, "Rumor is I had a good teacher." She broke decorum without warning, using his grip on her hand to pull him into a tight embrace. "Josie made me dress up, but if it makes her happy, fine." Dorian let out a small disbelieving huff against her hair; Evelyn made an unladylike snorting noise in reply. “Okay, _maybe_ the Tevinter delegation had a little something to do with it. Not the point.“ Trevelyan's face was nestled just north of his collar bone, her body tucked tightly against his. The formality from before was obvious only in her slightly rigid posture, keeping her made-up face off of his leathers. "I want it by the book so there are no grounds for these assholes to say _any_ thing about us mucking up the proceedings. Mostly, I want this nug-humping shit to eat dirt. I look forward to watching you feed it to him." He felt a little tremor pass through her. “...even if I’m still scared.”

"I do so love it when you're vicious," Dorian murmured, charmed despite the crudeness ( _or rather_ , he realized, _because of it_ ). “You can forget that scared nonsense, however--

"You love it when I'm confident, too," she swallowed hard before adding, "-and I’m confident you’re going to win, but be careful anyway, okay?" She pulled back, awkwardly patting his forearms. “Just….please be careful, Dorian.”

 

Sedric of House Kharion arrived an hour later with a rather small retainer, especially for someone from the Imperium. A scribe and two dozen guards in traditional Tevinter armor flanked the carriage.

Evelyn awaited him just inside the gate, hands curled tightly around her staff. A greeting, possibly; a warning, certainly. Aside from the porcelain white of her knuckles and the rigid line of her shoulders she appeared relaxed, the Iron Bull at one elbow and Dorian at the other. 

“They didn’t bring many soldiers,” Trevelyan remarked, glancing up at Dorian. He inclined his head, not taking his eyes from the approaching procession.

“Proof that this is indeed a private writ, and that they do not believe yours truly worth making a fuss over.” The noise Evelyn made was an odd one, equal parts disbelief and irritation.

“An insult to you as well as our group as a whole. And to think I almost felt bad posturing.” There were Inquisition soldiers filed all around the courtyard just in case. All very formal. When the retainer made it inside the walls, the soldiers parted neatly into two columns to funnel their guests to the Inquisitor while Cullen watched like a hawk from the battlements.

"I did not expect to be greeted by the Lady Inquisitor herself," Sedric said, lips twisted into a sneering smirk no one present could confuse for friendly. Still, he was far from slovenly, jaw wide and masculine and lined in facial hair groomed (almost) as fastidiously as Dorian's. His skin was a few shades lighter than Pavus's, his eyes the color of rust in the early afternoon sunlight. His lips brushed Evelyn's knuckles; the Inquisitor drew herself up taller, spine straight, shoulders back, defiance in her overly hard-edged posture. Sedric appeared to understand the ruse for what it was, glancing at Iron Bull with barely cordial disdain in his tone."You even traipsed out your pet ox for me. I am flattered, truly. What wonders the Inquisition has brought to bear." The Bull inclined his head with a small smile even as Evelyn felt Dorian bristle beside her. 

Well. She _thought_ she felt him bristle but with a sidelong glance she actually did not see any physical change in her fellow mage. His chin was raised, his smile vague; nothing blatant existed in his expression to belie his displeasure. 

"I was not aware it was proper to insult one's hosts as a way of greeting in Tevinter," the Inquisitor said coolly, looking fully at Dorian as she pulled her hand from Sedric's grasp. She did so with _just_ enough civility to avoid giving offense, "-nor ignore greeting the challenged party in a duel, nevermind your Altus status." Dorian picked up her lead beautifully while offering an arm for her to take.

"Not hardly, my dear--at least, not in any _proper_ house."

"As I thought," Trevelyan nodded; when she turned back to face front, Sedric was frowning. "We won't hold the fatigue of the road against you Ser, never fear: The Iron Bull is quite cordial enough for the both of you." The big Qunari's grin and subsequent half-bow had more than one of the 'Vint soldiers shifting uneasily. "Shall we show you to your rooms?"

"Insomuch as they are," was Sedric's reply, all proper disdain and an upturned nose. It was a perfectly imperfect reply to close out their churlish exchange.

Dorian threaded his fingers through the Inquisitor's where they were tightening around his proffered arm. Taking the hint, Evelyn resisted the urge to hit her guest.  
______________________

They made it through dinner without incident; the night, while sleepless, passed rather quickly. The duel was scheduled for the following afternoon, just after the second midday bell in a small practice ring in a dell just outside Skyhold. The courtyard would have been more formal but was just too risky; even outside the castle's main walls there were supply tents, constant foot and wagon traffic, and drills being run. Sedric had made a scathing comment about Southern rural barbarism that everyone save his retinue had promptly ignored.

It was the first time Dorian had a group of supporters to see him off to a fight, though the makeshift duel field was hardly a grand arena in Tevinter. Cole gave him an awkward hug, his lean arms squeezing surprisingly tight, all the while pursing his lips as though he were trying to avoid saying something...or several somethings. Sera actually stood on her toes and gave him half a hug, an awkward one-armed sort-of squeeze. It lasted roughly half a second before the elf grew disgruntled at the sweetness of the gesture and punched him in the arm to round it out.

"Give him a bad case of death, Magebits...wait, good case? Bad? Whatever. Stomp a mudhole in his arse, yeah?" He winked at her and bowed; she grinned at him wickedly and fled to take a seat on the wall. 

Madam Vivienne demanded that he not sully the Inquisition's reputation with anything as shameful as losing, nor leave her bereft of the only fitting partner she had for appreciating decent wines and fashion (and the lack thereof) in the frozen wasteland that was Skyhold. Solas gave him a nod from his position in the background; Varric shook his hand and bet on him for the duel.

"Added incentive for you to win, Sparkler," the dwarf replied solemnly. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

The Iron Bull...well. Bull didn't say much. The look on his face was carefully blank, an empty visage constructed with years of training. There was tension there, well-hidden behind weathered walls, and not for the first time, Dorian wondered how many people knew Bull well enough to notice. It...was not the time for such thoughts. 

“You got this, ‘Vint?” He kept his voice low, a soft rumble.

“Why, my dearest Iron Bull, was there ever any doubt?” The grandeur fell somewhat flat; Bull didn’t call him on it. Dorian allowed himself a sardonic little smile. “I’m certain you’re not implying I am anything but magnificent. Sedric hardly compares.”

“You are magnificent,” Bull agreed. The lack of a punchline was telling. “Go prove it. Again.” Cheeks slightly warm, Dorian nodded, the Iron Bull nodded back, and the former progressed to his place in the makeshift ring. As Dorian walked away, Sera inched over to where Bull was leaning, massive arms folded over his chest. 

"Whatcha think, Beefcheeks?" Sera asked, shuffling from foot to foot, fingers plucking at the fletching of an arrow as she twirled it. The girl was better at intrigues than Bull would have originally thought but her tells were as glaring as her choice of clothes.

"He's tense, more tense than he should be," the Bull huffed quietly. It was true. Dorian's shoulders were out of sorts; even through the stretches, strain was clear in every line of his form. Sera made an affirmative noise. 

"All worried about lettin' us down and shite, yeah?"

"...Yeah."

Sera panned the crowd, noticing the absence of a key person. "Where's Inqy?"

"Boss? Said she can't watch," the Bull groused. 

“Wot? She wanted to watch Magebits beat his ass!”

“Yeah,” Bull huffed, shrugging one shoulder, “she changed her mind.” He envied her that choice; standing on the sidelines and waiting to see what happened to one of his own just wasn't his style. He wanted to flex his hands, to indulge in the nervous gestures to vent the energy like Sera was, but forced himself to stay still. He wouldn't do anyone any good by fidgeting.

“Piss,” Sera replied. Bull found he rather agreed.

 

Sedric took his place on the opposite side of the field, 20 paces or so away from Dorian. His staff was ornate and befitting of an Altus, gilded gold haft and a massive opal focus stone gleaming in the midday sun. He had donned more practical robes for fighting--no ornate tails or baggy leggings--though even dressed down his chest still gleamed in gemstones and plush blue-black velvet over leather, catching each ray of the midday sun.

" _Historically one wishes his opponent good luck, but that hardly seems appropriate when fighting a traitor_ ," the man sneered in Tevene, twirling his weapon lazily. " _What would honor mean to a disgraced whore like you anyway_?" Dorian pursed his lips and didn't reply, moving through a kata with his staff to ease his muscles into readiness. His body was humming, mana tangible and alight, the stress in his neck ignored in light of the adrenaline. 

He had a job to do.

“Gentlemen, you are aware of the rules of engagement.” Cullen looked thunderous, his voice raised to carry to the spectators. “You may begin when ready.”

“ _There is a reason I was the one chosen to fight you, Dorian of House Pavus,_ ” Sedric’s teeth gleamed white and sharp in the sunlight. He lifted his weapon, gestured like a princeling addressing his subjects. “ _Shall I educate you?_ ”. Dorian didn’t give him the chance to go on; he lunged, staff a spiral of color as he let fire channel through it. Gouts of flame leapt for Sedric, twisting around each other in a deadly dance. The man grinned, spinning his golden stave to defend but the movement was too slow, too little too--

The flames vanished, quenched by the snap of a nullification enchantment that was so strong that it had backlash. The attack followed the dissipating mana trail back to its source. Dorian’s head twanged painfully before he cut the spell off. Across the ring, Sedric’s barrier shimmered into being. The man’s smile widened in self-satisfied certainty. Dorian allowed himself a moment of hesitation, a tiny respite to consider. _Once again forced to lament being correct._ The Venatori had set him up, just as he’d known they would. It was up to him to get himself out.

Dorian launched into motion, stave spinning as he loosed a four-beat set of blasts, crackling electric energy coursing through his staff to track after Sedric. As he twirled the weapon and slammed it home, three bursts of fire leapt from the crystal, enough to force Sedric into defense for a moment as he nullified the ambient charge and immediately had to swap to countering flame. Sedric was coordinated but was nowhere near as fast as Dorian, nor as sure-footed. Months in the field had made Dorian leaner and quicker than any one-off duel or practice ever could. The Fade all but roared around them, Dorian striking at his opponent with cleaving swings that kept Sedric backing away, all but tripping over his feet as he scrambled away from Dorian’s sweeping swings. Dorian closing range meant Sedric had to engage on two fronts, magical as well as physical, and that took the barest edge off his spell work. Their barriers held, small crackling bursts of electricity sparking as ice coalesced only to shatter. Around them, the crowd was silent, cheers and groans held in favor of baited breath.

Sedric’s nullification enchantments were strong ones; their after-effects made every spell more draining, every blast more dangerous if Dorian didn’t cut them short quickly enough. He faltered in his assault, stumbling when he tripped a glyph Sedric had set down. The blast of force sent him to the dirt, the graceless landing pushed the air from his lungs. Sedric’s flourish was triumphant as he reversed direction and charged; Dorian barely got clear as the heavy head of Sedric’s staff swung down. Pain erupted in his forearm as the stone slammed into it, Dorian’s scrambling just enough to save his face from taking the blow instead.

“Such a shame you’re unwilling to use your specialty,” Sedric sneered, closing distance to strike again. Dorian forced him back with a well-placed bolt of lightning, struggling up to his feet. He retook his staff in both hands and absolutely did not flinch at the grinding flash from his right arm, falling back as Sedric lunged at him again. “This is just pathetic.”

Even as Dorian attempted to reset his stance he saw Sedric lurch to release a spell--fire by the look--and Dorian faltered a half-beat. He took his staff in his injured right arm, his leg sweeping backward in a crescent-shape as he fortified. Left palm striking forward, he forced raw frost from his fingers, hoping to counter the fireball.

Dorian realized his error as soon as the ice rune flared, triggered the moment his foot crossed its threshold. The right side of his body washed in a fog of snowflakes and expanding frost, Dorian could only watch in horror as jagged spires of biting cold engulfed his flesh. Sedric’s laughter rang in his ears as the spell solidified, encasing Dorian’s leg up to the knee. His staff and right arm were frozen almost all the way to the shoulder, the ice terminating in a precise line exactly where the rune had intersected his body.

"A new twist on an old favorite," Sedric sneered. Dorian choked at the flare of the frigid spell work, the pillar of ice locking him in place. His skin, bare along his arm and shoulder, seared with with the harsh burn of his too-cold prison. "Makes that footwork of yours very ineffective, you'll note." Dorian thrashed pointlessly, watching his own breath cloud in the air as it fled his lips. He knew the motion to be wasted, his mind reeling as Sedric stalked nearer, staff raised blade forward to finish the job. Dorian concentrated; lightning bolts slammed to earth, three in rapid succession that drove Sedric several steps back. The effort had sweat standing on his forehead, his vision blurring at the effort of more casting without a focus.

"Come now, I don’t need to be close to kill you," Sedric smirked and Dorian saw the Fade flicker around him, searing the air around him red, "-you didn't honestly think I was going to give you time to counter, did you?" He glanced to his sides, taking in the onlookers. The smile he levered on Dorian screamed _collateral damage_ as the fireball manifesting before him grew larger and he added: "Let's test their reflexes, shall we?" The spell grew in diameter to roughly the same measure as Bull was tall, and Sedric let fly.

Dorian’s left arm being mobile was the only option he had left. Fingertips wreathed in shimmering, molten gold, Dorian's left hand shot forward, perpendicular to his chest, beckoning the killing blow. The faintest hint of a barrier dispelling washed his mad grin in a breathless blue and his arm, deliberate, moved from beckoning into a side-sweep. Light poured from his palm as a roar of effort tore his throat; his arm looped down by his hip, flowing smoothly from there to reach skyward, muscles and frame straining as he struggled to complete the casting with less than half his normal range of motion. 

Dorian's left hand reached its apex and the air around him _shattered_ , destruction and creation brought to bear in a blink. Reality contorted into shimmering shapes that materialized and stayed, glistening glass baubles his magic held suspended. The space around Dorian danced with every color as time stood still in Haste’s wake, Dorian’s focus hyper narrow; the spell dragged everything in his immediate vicinity to a near-dead halt. Sedric had stopped moving, hands outstretched after the fireball he'd loosed. The Fade sang, forced every sense of Dorian's into an awareness of all Haste touched. Never had the time warp felt as consuming as it did to him then, every nerve connected and aflame. 

All the while, heat built at his side as the fireball worked its way through the thick casing of ice. Sedric's fireball was mere inches from connecting with the flesh of Dorian's trapped right side; the tongues of combustion had already licked through the ice pillar's shell and had reached his skin. The first inklings of a fiery burn behind the frigid one fired a handful of synapses in his brain. Dorian brushed past the sluice of pain, bringing his left hand down, lightning lacing his fingers. His palm pressed to the pillar of ice and his magic pulsed; one heavy bolt reverberated through every fractal, raw energy fracturing bonds as it raced to the ground. A second pulse and the pillar exploded into a billion tiny shards, sharp edges clustered around like the expanding gases of a gaatlok blast contained. Each icy splinter grabbed hold of a synapse, a line of mana tied back to Dorian, a million threads of energy tugging at him in a spiderweb he didn't intend. They hung suspended in the air, blast extending no further, caught in his Haste. 

_Hurry_.

Right side and staff free, Dorian tried to run and ended up stumbling instead. He swapped his weapon to his uninjured side, the first shimmers of fading gold already tugging at his peripheral vision. Dorian moved towards his opponent as the glass prisms around him grew brighter, blinding, reflecting the Fade back at him even as they pulled magic _through_ him. 

He was ten paces from Sedric.

Sedric's eyes blinked slowly, face still contorted in a sneering laugh. Sounds were stretched and faded; the only thing Dorian could hear was a muted hissing and an echoing roar. Still stumbling, Dorian pressed forward and raised his staff to take the grip in both hands. As his left settled beside his right, the staff parallel to the broken ground underfoot, he forced the weapon outward, once, sharply. Behind him, the matrix of his magic snagged and pulled, redirecting a blast that at first did not want to come. Fire warped out of the ball it had formed when flying, stretching back on itself and reversing direction. A legion of ice shards realigned themselves like tiny missiles, changing their trajectory and gaining speed. 

Five paces.

Flame and fractal and the last crackles of electricity coiled behind Dorian, a cloud of elemental fury redirected. _splash damage, bystanders..._ No, that he would not allow. Sounds started to speed up as the air grew hot, gold washing into a fainter brilliance as it wavered, the dome-shape disintegrating from the top down. Dorian took another step and the recovered spells passed him, surging towards Sedric. An echo of a thunder-deep voice in the back of the Dorian's mind urged him on, coaxing him forward.

Three paces.

The spells behind him crested over Dorian’s form in a wave to crash down on his target. Nerves humming, every sense overloaded, Dorian swung the staff down towards his left hip in an arc that he promptly reversed, blade gleaming in a wash of gold. The smell of roasted meat hit his nose, pungent and strong, the same time the taste of ozone seared against his tongue.

One pace, close enough to hit. 

To everyone watching the reversal of the battle’s tide was nearly instantaneous: a fireball hitting a column of ice, the electric murmur of a bolt striking home, the incongruous dome of gold that flared to life and died in the time it took a butterfly's wing to beat. Dorian was trapped, half frozen and burning, and then he wasn't. The reason why was unclear, buried in a few rapid-fire flashes of light and color and a strange absence of sound.

The gush of blood washed outward in real time, however, as the last vestiges of the Haste spell faded away. The staff blade ran red as the one wielding it followed it through the motion, a two-handed upswing that carried him off balance. Dorian let go with his left hand as the weapon hit his shoulder's height, thrusting it down into the courtyard as he lost his footing. He was chest to chest with his aggressor...or would have been, had the other Tevinter not folded backwards, a broken figure lit by fire and sliced by shards of ice, warmth fleeing as electricity stopped his heart and a serrated staff blade cut through the heavy arteries in his throat. Sedric's eyes were wide in his face, mouth still gaping from the laugh he'd made last.

Dorian started to collapse, too, his absent magic a void that pulled at his consciousness like an insistent lover, promises of peace and calm and darkness on its lips. He resisted, planted his feet, and stabbed his bloodied blade into the ground as an anchor point. It mattered not that he'd gone too far past the limits of his power, siphoning from his body itself. It didn’t matter, not right now. The threads tying him to the spells he'd contained burned to nothing and the roaring of the Fade through his veins quieted, naught but a muted whisper.

Sedric's body hit the field and the world was quiet but for the whistling whine of the wind through the parapets and one mage's ragged breathing. Dorian flinched and hunched down as, a moment later, a tumultuous roar echoed around him, fierce and loud and consuming. Terror clenched his heart as he wondered if he'd called it too early, that he _was_ too far gone, too tapped and too focused and about to lose himself to the Fade even though he'd just won. The influx of sound forced his shoulders down, his free hand leaping to cover his ear in a vain attempt to ward off the noise.

It took a good five seconds for him to realize the roaring was coming from reality and not the Fade; he wasn't too far gone. He _had_ just tapped himself low. Dangerously so, but still he lived. As his eyes rose from the corpse of his challenger to the loose ring of bodies surrounding him on all sides, he saw hands and weapons and helmets, all thrust in the air in victory.

They were _cheering._ For _him_.

Dorian blinked owlishly and straightened, stunned at the exuberance of the crowd: soldiers, mages, castle staff, one very large mercenary captain...all of them were celebrating, seemingly on his behalf. There was something very surreal about that; Dorian ignored the pain from his flame-damaged hands and clutched his staff more firmly. He'd have expected to be cheered in Tevinter for a conclusion as spectacular as the one he'd just graced them with, but here in the South? Among people who, on the by and large, despised magic as a general rule? Curious...

A dark, furred pauldron became visible directly beside him; Dorian was too out of sorts to startle again. The figure knelt to check Sedric's life signs, finding none in the slightly mutilated mess Dorian had made of him.

"Sedric of House Khairion can no longer continue. We accept his defeat given his lack of argument to the contrary," the dark-clad figure called, clear voice carrying over the din in the field. Dorian just stared as Cullen straightened, the Commander's face impassive and cordial. This was formality, the close of the duel--the results that would be sent back to Erimond via his runners and on the wings of messenger birds. The people in the yard fell silent. "The victor, by process of shall we say..." Cullen glanced at the ground, "...elemental overkill: Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Skyhold." A smile pulled at Cullen's features as his gaze met Dorian's as he added quietly, "-by the Maker's grace, may he remain such." At that, Cullen bowed to the mage in proper Tevinter fashion, one hand over his heart and the other folded behind him. The movement was stiff and unpracticed, decidedly ungraceful; something in Dorian warmed with affection. As the Commander rose from the bow, Dorian felt himself start to shake. The crowd followed Cullen's lead. Some simply tilted their heads while others outright bowed but to the last, Skyhold took a few seconds in silence to commemorate Dorian’s victory before the yard erupted in cheering again.

Dorian didn't have words just then and settled for a bow of his own, though in reverse as his right arm was cradled to his stomach. His left stayed clamped on his staff for the sake of his balance. The gesture made his head swim and his stomach roll, his eyes sliding out of focus, but he swallowed down the sudden tightening in his throat and pulled himself out of it, spine straight and chin raised as he stood up. 

"Celebratory drinks in the Herald's Rest!" someone yelled, the crowd's indication to disperse. Bodies milled around the clearing, veering only slightly to evade the pile that was all that remained of Sedric. More hands than Dorian could count slapped him on the back in congratulations while Cullen stood fast at his side, a blockade against anyone getting overzealous in their gestures. Someone from the Tevinter retinue produced a sheet and covered Sedric's remains with it--a small gesture, but admittedly more than he'd gotten from the rest of Skyhold. They’d upheld their end of the formality--they didn’t have to _mourn_ the asshole.

Cullen’s firm grip on his elbow kept Dorian steady until most everyone had gone, a welcome anchor and a needed stabilizer. He had required the handful of moments to truly catch his breath, anyway.

"Are you alright?" Cullen asked, turning to Dorian once they had some semblance of privacy. Now he looked more like the man Dorian knew from their chess games, earnest and hesitant. Dorian started to answer, started to say _Yes, I'm fine, was there ever any doubt?_ in as lofty a tone as he could manage, but he did not get the chance. Something smashed into his back with the force of a small battering ram, nearly knocking him flat onto his face. Dorian caught an eyeful of Cullen's badly concealed grin as the man steadied him against the assailing force which, from all intents and purposes, appeared to be an amalgamation of crow-like shrieking and thin, feminine arms pinning his own against his sides. 

Evelyn's hug felt more like a hungry constrictor's meal preparation than any human sign of affection, crushing him as it was. She wriggled from around his back, forcing herself in between Dorian and Cullen and burying her face in the juncture of neck and shoulder.

"Maker you did it, you did it you really did it!! Dorian that was _amazing_ I told you I couldn't watch but then I did because I had to and I nearly lost my mind and _Maker,_ how did you get so _fast_ , was it Haste?" The commentary interlaced with rampant questions was unleashed in such a frenzy Dorian did hazard an attempted response. She’d beat him to it. "It was Haste, wasn't it? That doesn't usually _freeze_ time, though. Your head must be positively screaming after that!" 

Cullen muttered “Well if it wasn't before, it is now,” with a grin, under his breath. Evelyn ignored him and instead returned her eyes to Dorian’s, beaming smile bright as a Flashfire. Dorian saw that her eyes were puffy and red. 

"I know I know, ' _oh ye of little faith._ ' I was barely able to watch! Be cross with me for worrying later, when I haven't just seen you be encased in ice and yet still emerge victorious. Maker's Balls, you scared me _witless_ , Dorian, listen to me. I'm half mad."

"Two-thirds mad, perhaps," Cullen said seriously; Evelyn swore and turned to smack him, releasing Dorian to gravity and his own precarious balance, which waivered a bit before holding. A warm hand on his lower back helped him keep his feet. "Perhaps you can refrain from further assaults until our victor has had a chance to rest, your Ladyship?"

"Gah, fine," she turned back and was still smiling, "as the Commander says, then," she saw the state of Dorian’s hands, burned to blistering by fire and ice and his arm, bruised black from a staff strike. Her face crumpled. "You need to rest and get patched up, do you--?"

"I can take care of him, boss." Dorian's head tilted backwards. He found himself in the shade of a large qunari with a rather lopsided smirk.

"Can you now?" Dorian's voice was meant to sound equal parts lascivious and haughty; instead it sounded caught and ragged. He squawked as heavily muscled arms scooped him up, lifting under his knees and providing a rest for his shoulders. It said something about the moment that Dorian didn't protest much beyond his indignant noises, shuffling his staff into the crook of his arm.

"Yup," the Bull said simply. His smile was radiant, though he didn’t look down. “What, getting tended by a great hulking lummox not fancy enough for your shiny ass?”

"My ass’s shininess notwithstanding, this is not the way the grand victor leaves the dueling field," Dorian sniffed, not at all distracted from said victory by the encompassing solidness of the Bull's arms around him. One thick finger brushed against Dorian's temple and he quieted. _Tap, tap, tap._

"Even the mighty stumble," Bull replied, slightly more serious. "Besides, 'Vint, I thought we could debrief on your fighting style. You need a new finishing move. 'Tear out the other guy's throat' is getting old." Evelyn just grinned and grabbed Cullen's hand to lead him off as he blushed hotly at the touch of her skin on his. Dorian snickered; it was like tiny adorable animals in the springtime. Somewhere nearby a voice called:

"Bold and breathless, the Tevinter was swept victorious from the dueling arena into the rippling arms of his--"

" _Varric!_ " Trevelyan scolded from across the courtyard, loudly beating Dorian to responding to the insinuation, "-enough with that _thing_ you do!"

"You heard Inqy, Dwarfy!" Sera was perched on the wall, swinging her legs merrily as she palmed a jar that was buzzing fiercely. She waved enthusiastically and nearly fell when Dorian looked her way. "Magebits deserves some R&R after putting down Sir Prig of House Tuttlenuts over there." Her teeth bared in a gleaming promise. "I've got a little parting gift for his party right 'ere," she added, brandishing the jar. Varric raised his hands in defeat and followed the Inquisitor and Cullen towards the Herald's Rest.

"Quite right," the Altus sighed, not at all leaning into Bull's hold. It was unclear if he was agreeing to the R&R or the bees, or both. Likely both.

"I'll bandage those hands and take you back to your room, 'Vint," Bull suggested as they walked. 

"What, not to the tavern?" he demanded, aghast, every bit the noble (albeit tired) Tevinter. "I am victorious! Surely you do not mean to deprive me of the adoration of the frothing masses?" The Bull’s face did not budge and so Dorian pressed on. "What about the opportunity to drink myself into a stupor and do something I regret? Surely I've earned _that_ much?"

"...how about some _one_ you'll regret?" The last was so quiet Dorian wasn't sure the sound even fully left Bull's throat. Oddly enough, the passing comment--perhaps in light of just murdering one of his elitist, bigoted countrymen--had the mage's lips twisted down into a frown.

"You presume much, you lummox." Bull's quirked eyebrow was answered by Dorian closing his eyes. Eye contact was too forward. No need to be more syrupy than he was already intending. Dorian leaned against the warmth that was the Bull’s chest and simply replied: "'Regret' is such a pejorative word. Ill-conceived may be more fitting perhaps? Much less damning, after all." _It all rings much less of Tevinter's stance on the matter that way,_ he added, but only in his head. The big man deserved better than his homeland's prejudices, even though he was still overcoming them himself. Bull's grin widened as he felt one of Dorian's knuckles against his grey skin, right over his heart. _Tap, tap, tap._

"I can handle ill-conceived," the warrior promised. 

"You had best be able to handle a lot more than that," Dorian smirked to himself. “Though I will require a bath first,” he added, the second victory of Bull's full-throated laughter echoing in the cool mountain air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love more prompts for this verse that, you know, WON'T take me a year to write. :P In seriousness, the whole point of Prowess is just to wax philosophic about how frigging awesome Dorian is so yeah...any ideas, feel free to leave them!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry the first bit is kinda chatty, I'll get there I swear :)


End file.
